


Guilty Pleasures

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Blindfolds, Double Penetration, Gags, Gangbang, Masks, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Partners, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Sexual Fantasy, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:30:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3885922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They want to rip pieces out of him, and he wants to be torn apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guilty Pleasures

**Author's Note:**

> dont even know what pairing to tag this with. lots of tags in case anything squicks people out.

With a disappointed sigh, Jay takes his hands out of his pants and clears his browser history. He's spent over thirty minutes touching himself, but nothing appealed to him, nothing gave him that spark of arousal, nothing felt satisfying enough. He tried fingering himself to no avail, and, when he imagined having a dick, it just made him feel pathetic.

He pushes away his laptop and falls onto the pillows. His underwear is sticky and his fingers are wet, but he doesn't feel like giving in and washing off yet. His hand is cramped from frantically jerking himself off to videos of strangers sucking another stranger's dick, and he tries not to think about how he intentionally looked for voyeuristic porn that took place in the woods.

Can't he at least have a decent orgasm, or has that been taken from him, too? He can't even masturbate without thinking of ToTheArk watching him, filming his every move. He closes his eyes and lets his imagination do the rest of the work. His partner's faces, as they bite their lips, kiss him, eat him out - merge with the few people he's slept with into an unidentifiable blur. So many different hands it seems like he's fucking four people instead of one.

That does something for him. He slides his hands back into his pants and focuses on the faceless, the obscured, the _masked._ He doesn't know how many people are involved with ToTheArk, how many people know him more than he knows himself. He imagines them discovering him in this hotel room with his pants around his knees. They would stand around the bed, and he wouldn't be able to see their faces but by the dent of their pants he would know that they're interested.

Some of them wear animal masks, ugly pig faces and latex rooster heads, and they crowd around his bed as he lays there naked. In the fantasy, his wrists are bound with rope to the headboard, so he can't do anything but let them observe him through the tiny slits in their masks like camera lenses. Maybe they're recording him. Maybe they're going to post this later on YouTube. Maybe he loves the idea of them mocking him, judging by the way his body is finally reacting.

The one in a familiar hood touches him first, but he can't see, can only feel a gloved finger trailing down his cheek. He imagines licking that finger, sucking it into his mouth, and - fuck, he slides a finger of his own into himself, pops one into his mouth, and sucks it like he imagines sucking them off. He wets his lips and moves his tongue over his finger, and he thinks about how he should be wearing a mask, too, or a blindfold. Even if they weren't wearing masks, he isn't allowed to see them, yes, should only be allowed to feel them. He groans softly at the thought of being so powerless when they're standing right above to him.

He needs a little more, more _foreful_ and more _hard fast quick_. Hands grab at his body, jerk his head up by the hair and pull his thighs apart. Hands squeeze his throat gently. Hands turn his shoulders to face them. He feels gloves over exposed warm skin; he can hear them unzipping their pants, kneeling on the bed, getting closer and closer around him. He swallows hard at the thought of giving a blowjob, something he hasn't done in years, but in his head, he parts his lips and accepts it with a moan.

Whatever is offered to him, he takes it one by one. Or two at the same time, if they can fit. They fuck his mouth until his jaw aches, and his first orgasm crashes into him. All Jay can think of, as he finishes himself with his fingers, is the thought of their eyes behind those masks, seeing every twitch of his body and everything he lets, he _wants_ them do to him. They want to watch him and touch him and eat him alive - he bites down on his pillow as he comes back down, fingers still deep inside.

In that small moment of clarity, he worries, is this a healthy thing to be fantasying about? But his first climax has made him more loose and wet than before, and he can't stop thinking about ToTheArk.

He wants the one that's Tim, but not Tim, however that works, to be the first one to fuck him. He's ready when those strong hands push past his thighs and snap their hips against his. They don't bother to open him up first; they push inside him with a grunt and it's aggressive and dirty and everything he wants it to be. He wants it to be about them, he's just a means of getting them off, nothing better than a sex toy - all of them watch Jay as he moans at each thrust.

He should have a gag, too, so he can't close his mouth when they want to spit on him or fuck his face. He wouldn't be able to stop himself from drooling around it until he's a slobbering mess. His skin would be hot and sticky with their fluids and his own when they lift him up so the masked one can get a better angle.

Shit. Shit, shit, he's already coming again. It doesn't last as long as his first, and fingerfucking himself so hard has left him tender. He pants heavily, and he feels so alive and ridiculously turned on. He doesn't want to stop because the arousal hasn't faded.

He imagines them using both his holes at once - somebody on the bottom pounding into his ass, somebody on the top filling his front hole. The figures he's seen persistently in his cameras, the one in the hood and the one in the white mask, are the two he imagines double-teaming him. They want to rip pieces out of him, and he wants to be torn apart.

One of them pushes up the edge of their mask so they can get a taste of him. The hotel room echoes with the sounds of the rest of ToTheArk touching themselves while watching him break. He would taste like their cum and his own, and while they're using their tongue, they could press a finger into his ass, keep him open and ready for when they want to fuck him again. They would have to grip his thighs to keep him from rocking against their face, and they'd eat up his orgasm like he's delicious, like he's their next meal. He would let them take that away from him. He would give up his body enthusiastically. In that moment, he wants it, so bad, more than he wants to know what's under their masks.

His dick is about the width of two fingers, so it's easy to jerk off. He no longer feels self conscious when he thinks about what it would be like to have a dick like a cis dude, what it would be like for them to ride it, brink him to the brink and then deny him the right to cum. They could make him wear a cock ring to make sure he doesn't finish. What would it feel like for someone he can't see to clench around him, their own dicks hot and heavy on his stomach? They would cum on him to let him know he can't do the same unless they allow him to. Even the one in the hood would take a turn, fucking themselves on him until he feels like he's going to burst.

The third climax surprises him. He shudders as it courses through his body, slow and hot and perfect. At times he feels almost grateful that he doesn't have a dick, because he doesn't have to stop after climaxing once.

Images of masks and gloved hands disappear, to be replaced by a tired but pleased fatigue. His stomach growls at him, and his finger makes a wet, slick sound when he takes it out of his mouth. He wipes the spit off on his shirt, too polite to piss off the maids more than he's going to infuriate them with the stains he just made on the sheets.

He props himself up on his elbows, and his mind wanders towards food. First, a shower.

And maybe some time in a confessional.


End file.
